The Emerald Isle - Part 1

I'm finally back!

I'll be finishing off all the previous stories over the next week or two, but I have a few commissions to get out, first.

This commission is (I think) the first story I've actually written that's based in Ireland, which is strange, considering that I'm based in Ireland! Anyway, it's a two-parter, so enjoy!

All characters are 18+ 

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Nice?”

“Yeah. Nice. I don’t know. There’s just something about it that’s… Nice”.

Cormac stood a thousand feet high with his arms out either side of him. A step forward and he’d plunge into the icy cold Atlantic and be washed away to somewhere magical. Maybe he’d make it to America.

A step backwards, and he’d return to his miserable, mundane life on the tiny island of Inishmore.

“I wouldn’t call it nice” Patrick told him. He sat on a rock with a joint between his fingers and watched as sheets of grey rain whipped through the cold air. His clothes were damp. His feet felt like blocks of ice in his old shoes, and he took another pull.

“Where would you go?” Cormac asked him. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

“To the pub” Patrick said, without thinking. His Irish wit often shone through, and today was no different.

“I’m serious” Cormac replied. “I’d go to America”.

“Why?”

Cormac took a breath of fresh air as he watched the choppy waves smash against the cliffs below. From up there, even through the mist, they looked beautiful.

“The Land of The Free” he said, but Patrick scoffed.

“Look around” he said, “how much freer could you get?”

Perhaps Patrick didn’t understand. He’d always been a very literal man. Perhaps he didn’t need to understand, which made Cormac feel even worse. “Give me that” he said, and took the joint from his friend as he sat back down, damp and cold.

“Sure, you’d never find a good Irish girl over there” Patrick continued, eyeing the dark storm out at sea. “They’d be taken by all the American fellas with their big white smiles and their cappuccinos”.

Cormac smiled as the effects of the joint began to take over. It was the one part of his day that made the rest a little more bearable. “Maybe you’re right” he said, handing it back to Patrick, “will we go for a pint?”

The pub was older than time itself. Its wind-beaten walls were chipped and cracked, but the building had weathered many a storm, and was set to weather many more.

It stood on its own, ten minutes walking distance from the town. Five if you had a bike. It was home to the sorrow of every drunk man on the West, and the heartache of every wife and child who would eventually arrive to collect their drunken spouse and take him home.

Sean O’ Flaherty sat at the bar. He was like a permanent fixture in the place, and wore his usual long coat, with his flat cap covering a tuft of white hair. He’d already gotten through half a Guinness, and was playing with a chaser of whiskey between knobbed, calloused fingers.

“Not like you boys to be out this early of a Thursday” he said. His voice was as thick as porridge.

“Two beers, Donal” Patrick announced, as he and Cormac sat down next to the old man. “Sure, isn’t it too miserable to be out there getting wet, when we could be in here gettin’ drunk?” Patrick said.

“Ah, sure you’re right” Sean nodded, and closed his eyes as he returned to whatever alcohol induced coma he’d been in.

Cormac envied his best friend. The pair had grown up together, bound by their shared misfortune of having been born in such a desolate place. They’d gone to school together, in a class of only seven students, but somehow, Patrick had learned the art of confidence. Something that Cormac had never managed.

Father Kelly walked in shortly after and warmed himself by the blazing fire. His cold breath could still be seen as he blew into his hands, and then his eyes landed on the pair and he said “ah, now there’s two faces I haven’t seen at mass lately”.

Patrick glanced at Cormac and rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, father” he said, and Cormac knew him long enough to know that he was being cheeky. “We’re there every Sunday, aren’t we Cormac?”

“Aye, we are” he nodded, smiling into his pint.

“You just don’t see us, father” he continued, “we sit at the back, don’t we, Cormac?”

“Aye, we do”.

“Is that so?” Father Kelly replied, sounding unconvinced.

“Honest, father” Patrick said, gulping, “we reckoned that we’re a bit too old to be sitting up the front of the church. Thought we’d make way for some of the younger boys”.

Cormac snorted into his pint glass as his friend nudged him, and Father Kelly turned puce as he muttered ungodly words into his hands. “Your mother would be awfully ashamed of you, Hannigan” the man growled, and declined his usual half-pint of Guinness that was offered by Donal, the barman, before storming back out of the pub. Patrick and Cormac laughed together for almost five minutes after.

“You never answered me back there” Cormac eventually said, “where would you go if you could go anywhere?”

Patrick considered it for a moment, and Cormac watched him. He was a handsome lad, with wavy black hair and a serious, sultry look on his chiselled face. It surprised Cormac that even now, as the pair of them rapidly approached thirty, his best friend remained wife-less.

“Dublin” he eventually said, and Cormac scrunched his face up.

“Dublin? Are you mad?”

“Have you ever smelled the hops from the Guinness storehouse on a winter’s night?” He asked, and took a deep breath through his nostrils as though he was reliving it. “It’s like magic”.

“The only thing magical about Dublin City is the road out of it” Cormac scoffed, and the two of them finished their drinks, ordered many more, and only left when darkness had fallen.

“Some day I’ll go to America” he said, as they zigzagged up the muddy path back toward the town. He draped his arm over his friend’s shoulder, and Patrick returned the favour.

“Some day I’ll go to Dublin” he grinned.

“Sure, it’s only a bus ride away”.

“And America is only a plane ride away”.

He supposed Patrick was right, but it was late, and he was drunk, so he said nothing more until Patrick cleared his throat.

“In Dublin’s Fair City, where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone”.

“Are we at that age now, where we sing drunken songs walking home, Paddy?” Cormac laughed, as the rain began to fall once more. Patrick smiled to himself, and as loudly as they possibly could, the pair sang through the town.

“You need to get yourself a feckin’ job!”

Her voice pierced the sleep that he’d been enjoying, and suddenly he was awake, and his brain pounded inside his skull.

“You’re making a holy feckin’ show of your father and I!” His mother barked, standing at the door of his bedroom with a tea-towel draped over her arm, and rollers in her greying hair. “You’re not twelve anymore, Cormac!”

He peeled his eyes open and winced at the light. He couldn’t even remember getting home, but the taste of stale Guinness in his mouth told him that there was a very good reason for that.

“Father Kelly knocked around this morning” she continued, becoming more enraged by the second. “It’s that Patrick fella!” She spat, “he’s a bad influence on you, Cormac. I’ve been telling you that since you were a boy!”

“I’m twenty-eight, mam” he groaned, crawling from his bed, “have you made any breakfast? I’m starving”.

She continued to glare at him for a moment before sighing. “There’s a few sausages left in the pan” she said sternly, “you’d better hurry up before your father gets them, though”.

Cormac dragged himself downstairs where his father sat reading a newspaper. The man glanced up over it, and shook his head.

“Do you not think it’s about time you got a job and started yourself a family?” He asked, his disapproval obvious. “When I was your age I had four kids and a wife!”.

“When you were my age, you had nothing else to do” Cormac replied, wolfing down a cold sausage.

“And what?” His father growled, “spending your days with that Hannigan boy in the pub is better? Anyway, you may say goodbye to him this weekend”.

Cormac swallowed and turned back to his dad. “What?”

“You heard me” he said, without looking up from his paper. “I went down and spoke to Tommy Connell this morning. He has a fishing boat going out on Sunday evening, there’s room for you on it”.

“I’m not a fisherman!” Cormac choked out. “I can’t even swim!”

“Then don’t fall off!”

“It’s for the best, love” his mother said, appearing with a cup of tea a moment later, “it’ll do you no good spending the rest of your life on this little island. You need to make something of yourself”.

“I’m going to America!” He shouted, and felt his cheeks burn when his father scoffed. “I am!”.

“With what money?” The man asked, “you’re bleeding us dry, and that money we had for you for college, well you’ve gone and pissed all of that down the sink. Anyway, it’s settled. You’ll be gone for a month at a time, and by god, son, you’ll be feckin’ thankful for it”.

Cormac stormed from the house and out into the brisk air. He felt sick to his stomach, partly from the hangover, and partly due to the fact that he’d never been away from Patrick for more than a couple of days. He didn’t even think about where he was going as he hurried through the thick trees, and found himself in the same place that he and Patrick had spend most of their childhood, and then his eyes landed on the mound on the cold, wet dirt.

“Patrick?” He gasped, as the mound moved, and his best friend sat up. “Have you been out here all night?

The man looked pale and dishevelled, and shook slightly as he got to his feet. Cormac’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

“I suppose the game’s up” Patrick half laughed, and Cormac shook his head, confused.

“What? What game? What are you talking about?”

Patrick pulled out a cigarette and lit it before looking back at his friend and smiling sadly. “This is my new house” he chuckled, “do you like it?”

“I don’t understand” Cormac replied, “your mam’s place. Why aren’t you there?”

“Kicked me out a few weeks ago” he shrugged, “don’t blame her, really”.

“Patrick, you’ll freeze to death out here”.

“Hopefully”.